


My Best Friend Is A Jack-Ass

by Losyark



Category: House M.D., My Best Friend is a Vampire | I Was a Teenage Vampire (1987)
Genre: AU, Crossover, F/M, M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-29
Updated: 2007-07-29
Packaged: 2018-01-13 15:34:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1231792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Losyark/pseuds/Losyark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a quick little crossover between two things that probably should never have been put together. Knowledge of the film isn't necessary, really. It's all explained.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Best Friend Is A Jack-Ass

James Wilson’s first wife was named Darla Capello. 

 

That’s because back then, James’ last name had also been Capello. His first name had been Jeremy.

 

Unfortunately, there were people out there who didn’t like people like Jeremy Capello, through no fault of his own, and by extension the people like Darla who loved them. _Really_ didn’t like them.

 

After Darla was murdered, Jeremy Capello went into the witness protection program. He said good bye to his parents and his best friend Ralph and his name and lied about his age and enrolled in law school on another continent. The people that had killed Darla had meant to kill him – they’d just made a mistake, mixed them up. It wasn’t the first time.

 

James knew that people like that didn’t go after _visible_ people like _him_. He was going to be a top rated lawyer, he decided. Someone really powerful. Really visible. Someone who could make other people like him safe.

 

While he was there he met Sarah. He fell in love. It was easier, now that he was like this. Anyone was good, as long as they had a pulse, really. Easy. They got married because she wanted to, but she had cancer. Even James’ special knowledge and abilities couldn’t beat back cancer - once someone is dying, they’re dying, and there’s nothing that can be done about that.

 

When Sarah was gone, he moved back to the States. 

 

James lied about his age again and enrolled in medical school. James Wilson met Gregory House in his first oncology seminar. 

 

"I’m switching majors," Gregory House said. “This professor is a moron.”

 

"I just did," James Wilson lied. 

 

"You’re an idiot," Gregory House said. “Also, you are lying.”

 

“I am not lying.”

 

“You’re eyes are twitching.”

 

James Wilson looked Gregory House in the eye.

 

"Maybe," James Wilson replied. "But if I can cure cancer--"

 

"Cure caner?" Gregory House scoffed. "I have revised my diagnosis. You’re a _huge_ idiot."

 

"Why?"

 

"No one has that kind of time. Cancer won’t be cured for decades - centuries, maybe. It would take life times of research and has already cost lifetimes."

 

"I have that kind of time," James Wilson said softly.

 

"Pardon? Stop mumbling. You’ll have to stop mumbling if you want to be my friend."

 

"You want to be my friend?" James Wilson asked.

 

"What are we, in grade 3?"

 

"You said it first."

 

"Why me?"

 

“I like your hair. It’s flippy. I want you to teach me how you do it.”

 

  
“Ha,” James said.    


 

“I’m forcing myself into your life whether you like it or not,” Gregory House said back.

 

“God, you are just like Modoc!”

 

“Who?”

 

James said nothing.

 

Then he said, “No, seriously. Why?”

 

Gregory House pointed at the window paneling on the doors of the lecture hall. He waved at his own reflection and stuck out his tongue. James Wilson gulped at the lack of his.

 

“Most people don’t notice,” James Wilson whispered. 

 

“I did,” Gregory House said. “Wanna tell me why?”

 

“Not really,” James Wilson said.

 

“I’m a patient, patient man,” Gregory House said. “Let’s go get a beer. Let’s become drinking buddies. Let’s become friends. Let’s confide in each other and paint each other’s toenails and talk about girls. And when we’re crotchety old doctors together and I’m the godforsaken godfather to your brats and you’re ready and you trust me, you’ll tell me.”

 

James Wilson punched Gregory House in the mouth.

 

He pulled his punch. He broke the skin but did not break the man’s jaw. He could have.

 

He retreated to the men’s washroom and looked at his knuckle. He stayed in a cubicle until everyone was gone. Damn mirrors. He came out of the cubicle and frowned at them, as if that would scare them into reflecting his image. It didn’t. Then he licked away the splatter of blood and washed his hands.

 

“Interesting,” Gregory House said from the door of the washroom. “Wanna go catch the monster truck rally?”

 

“You’re a relentless bastard,” James Wilson said.

 

“And one day, you’ll learn to love that about me.”

 

“Yeah, right,” James Wilson said, and then they went to the monster truck rally.

* * *

 

“They murdered my first wife,” James said one day, sitting with House in the rain on their shared balcony.

 

He touched his thumbs together deliberately, thinned his lips by sucking them inwards.

 

“Oh?” House said. He didn’t look at all like he’d finally and triumphantly worn his best friend of fifteen years down.

 

“My name is Jeremy Capello. That’s what it said on my birth certificate, anyway.”

 

“You brother on the streets?”

 

“My best friend in high school. Ralph. He... works.”

 

“Huh. And?”

 

“And that’s the only puzzle piece you get for now,” James said and went back inside his office. He changed into a fresh shirt with a bright blue tie and went home to pretend have dinner with his wife.

 

* * *

 

  
“Darla Capello, born 1972, murdered in 1992 by a Ronald Grimstyke,” House read off a news clipping pinned under his thumb against his cane the next morning as he handed  Wilson an empty coffee cup. “So you married an eighteen year old girl when you were sixteen? Tsk.”   


 

  
James took the cup and pretended there was coffee in it, pretended to sip. House always gave him an empty coffee cup and  Wilson always pretended to drink what was in it, because that’s what people around them needed to see.   


 

  
The first time House had handed James a real coffee, about three months after the monster truck rally,  Wilson had taken off the lid and very deliberately poured the coffee into a flowerpot in the library, snapped the plastic lid back into place, and pretended to sip.   


 

The potted hydrangea died and the next time, House gave him an empty coffee cup. James flashed a closed lipped smile and every coffee cup thereafter had been empty.

 

“Darla,” James said softly. “I met her in high school. Before.”

 

“Before?” House prompted.

 

James shook his head. “Just before. Oh, there’s Cuddy. She looks like she’s on a mission – quick, I’ll distract her.”

 

“You are a true friend.”

 

“Sure, rub it in, why dontchya?”

 

* * *

 

Several months later House was laying on his back on the floor in his office, tossing an oversized tennis ball up and down, catching it with his left hand, throwing with his right.

 

James stuck his head in House’s office and said, “You’re late for clinic duty.”

 

“Aw, but Mom,” House whined. “Just five more mintues?”

 

James laughed and shook his head and said, “It’s sort of technically an STD.”

 

“Clinic duty? What an interesting differential.”

 

“Har har. You know what I mean.”

 

“You sleep around a lot.”

 

“You can only get it from repeat or intense exposure.”  


“You’re sparing Julie?”

 

“Not that she’ll ever understand that.”

 

“Sarah?”

 

“She didn’t catch it fast enough.”

 

“Did you spare Darla?”

 

James’ eyes got shadowed. “I wish I hadn’t.”

 

“Huh. Late for clinic you say? Help a cripple up.”

 

* * *

 

  
“So it’s a communicable STD, but only after prolonged exposure with an underlying possibility of helping cure or actually curing cancer. Symptoms include lack of reflection,” House paused in his musing, running one thumb over the words he’d scribbled onto the notepad – the first new words in nearly a decade on that particular page. He wondered if he’d ever tried to photograph  Wilson , he couldn’t remember. “Dislike of coffee, no ingested nutrients required, and lack of aging. It also is a source of extreme external prejudice.”   


 

“What?” the man in the paper gown yelped.

 

“No, not you,” House said, grabbing his cane and swinging himself to his feet. “ _You_ have an allergy to latex. Here – take this to the pharmacist and get yourself some nice latex-free condoms and some cream. Honestly, if you kept breaking out into sores, _why_ did you keep putting on condoms?”

 

“She was hot!”

 

House raised his eyebrows and conceded the point.

 

* * *

 

James heard House trying to sneak around the corner before House’s face and the Polaroid camera whipped around his door frame. James held up his middle finger and said “Wooooorking,” and didn’t stop the scratch of pen on paper.

 

“Aren’t you just Mary Sunshine,” House said glumly, taking the Polaroid from the camera and stumping off down the hall.

 

An hour later Cameron asked him why he had a picture of Dr. Wilson’s empty office pinned to his bulletin board and House’s scowl was her only reply.

 

* * *

 

“You freaking psycho!” James yelped, waving one fist at House and rubbing his bottom firmly with the other.

 

“That’ll teach you to bend down around me,” House said and hobbled back out of the clinic room with a shit-eating grin.

 

“Uh, does that mean you’re breaking up with him?” the patient with the ingrown toenail asked.

 

“I’m _married_ , _”_ James snarled.

 

“Honey, I thought we were keeping that a secret,” House drawled with a smirk. “Workplace relationships and all that.”

 

“I’ll give you a relationship with my _fist_ ,” James snarled.

 

House waved the syringe full of James’ blood cheekily and disappeared with surprising quickness around the corner.

 

* * *

 

“Whatchya lookin’ at?” Cuddy asked.

 

House did not tear his eyes away from the blood culture on the microscope lenses. “Your DNA.”

 

“Mine?” she asked, not for one second perturbed. 

 

“I think I’ve discovered the slut gene.” He lifted a small phial of blood, dipped a thin needle inside, and deposited a drop onto the slide. “Look at that,” House said, eyes glued to the lenses of the scope. “Your blood cells just _attacked_ this poor man’s.” 

 

“Attacked?” Cuddy asked before she had a chance to think better. She raised a hand. “Never mind, I don’t want to know. Clinic duty. Two hours. Now,” she said, turned on her heel and swooped out of the lab.

 

“Attacked,” House confirmed as the door swung shut. “Attacked and consumed.”

 

* * *

 

The small whiteboard House kept tacked to the wall beside his desk said:

 

_No reflection_

_No outside nutrients_

_Extreme external prejudice_

_Can potentially cure cancer (Can prevent death?)_

_Blood cells consume other blood (osmosis of nutrients?)_

_STD – prolonged, repeat exposure_

_Lack of aging_

 

Foreman dropped a stack of what promised to be very very boring submitted patient cases. “What,” Foreman asked, peering around the computer. “You taking differentials on Dracula?”

 

If he’d had two good legs, House would have kicked himself.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Gregory House handed James Wilson his usual cup of coffee – no coffee. Today, though, it wasn’t empty, either. It was filled with pig’s blood.

 

“Where’d you get this?” James asked, peering suspiciously into the sippy-hole and very firmly keeping his backside turned away from House.

 

“The butcher’s near your house. It took me a while to convince him that I had come to pick it up for you. He asked if I was in the same ‘club’ as you, and when I said I was new, he was all kinds of babbling helpful. He said this was your favorite.”

James took a slow sip of the microwave-heated blood and sighed. “He was right. So, a member of my ‘club’? You’ve read the rulebook then?”

 

“You have a rule book?”

 

James Wilson fished it out of his labcoat pocket and handed it to House. It was worn and maroon coloured leather with gilt lettering – **Vampirism: A Guide to an Alternative Lifestyle.**

 

“You’re kidding,” House said.

 

James smiled, all white, sharp teeth. “Nope.”

 

“Huh,” House said and pocketed the book.

 

He wondered if this whole STD hoo-ha could cure muscle infarctions. If it did, he would totally be willing to help James cheat on his wife. 

 

Right, okay, so House had never actually wanted to _sleep_ with James before or, you know, _any guy_ but... There had to be a first time for everything, right? And kinky blood-play? 

 

For a fixed leg and a good shag?

 

Sure, why not?

 

Then maybe he and James could get around to that curing cancer thing


End file.
